


Picture Perfect

by kuwdora



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-31
Updated: 2007-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 21:39:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1723409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuwdora/pseuds/kuwdora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sylar had learned how to bide time long ago, and even if he was on the cusp of reclaiming everything he'd worked hard for, body humming with anticipation, he wouldn’t allow Mohinder to see the full extent of his desperation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picture Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Sekrit Cabal Ficlet Battle](http://community.livejournal.com/cerebel_fics/61594.html) using the prompt "bet you wish you hadn't done that". It kind of grew larger than a few LJ comments could hold.

_I’m going to have to take a sample of your blood._

Sylar narrowed his eyes at Mohinder. He didn’t like Mohinder’s reasoning, but the man was far too stupid to lie to him. Mohinder was never good at it. Sylar unzipped his jacket and rolled up his sleeve, indignant at his minor act of submission and Mohinder’s determined gaze. Sylar would wipe that smug glint in Mohinder’s eye away by probing the man’s sore spot – and he did. The familiar bitter words fell easily from Mohinder’s lips, as if he was waiting for Sylar to initiate their choreographed conversations about Chandra Suresh.

If only Mohinder could feel as exhilarated as Sylar did when he moved objects and bodies with his mind, or be as delighted when Sylar could still hear the busking college student with his alto saxophone from eight blocks away. If he knew what it was like to have fire and ice on dance on fingertips or see the future unravel before him in iridescent layers of paint… The lust and joy surrounding the severed heads and twisted bodies was an acquired taste, like cigarettes, and one that Sylar warmed up to quickly, but he couldn’t ever imagine Mohinder relishing the kill. He’d outright refuse if given the chance, like one of those kids from an anti-smoking campaign. Mohinder wouldn’t “just say no” if he could feel the rush of endorphins, the self-satisfaction that Sylar felt when he loomed strong, powerful, and as full of self-confidence as he never was before he met Chandra. Then he’d understand the drive, the _need_ for getting his powers back at any cost, even if that included towing a chattering Latina who carried the Black Death within her through two countries as a safety net.

If only.

The sharp jab in his arm told Sylar something more than the monsoon of anger brewing behind Mohinder’s eyes; he enjoyed hurting Sylar, however insignificant the pain was. That tickled him more than Mohinder could imagine, tickled more than his acquiescence to a needle-prick and sluicing of blood could ever show.

He eyed the slow-filling vial and tried not to flex his arm in impatience. Sylar had learned how to bide time long ago, and even if he was on the cusp of reclaiming everything he'd worked hard for, body humming with anticipation, he wouldn’t allow Mohinder to see the full extent of his desperation.

Mohinder barely looked at the needle or Sylar. Instead he kept looking past him, above him. Sylar looked from the vial and then to Mohinder. It was as if the anger had drained from him, like he was also waiting for something and that piqued Sylar’s interest. He followed Mohinder’s gaze and tilted his head. There was nothing there - except _him_ , tasting the floor, hands and knees bruised by the unexpected contact with the ground. The vial fell from his arm and shattered, blood spattering at his fingertips. Sylar didn’t need eyes in the back of his head know that the gun was leveled at his back.

“Don’t move,” Mohinder said.

Sylar repressed a sigh, hung his head and stared Mohinder’s shoes from between his knees. Mohinder was still stupid as ever.

Mohinder shuffled his feet as if he was trying to get his bearings now that the tables had turned. Sylar smiled at the hesitancy and waited, the unobtrusive seconds ticking past. He anchored his weight in the chest and forearms, eyes distantly taking in the dribble of blood from the vein where the needle still dangled. The way the blood twined around his arm reminded Sylar of when he used to play in his mother's yarn basket.

“Get--" Mohinder started and Sylar mule-kicked him in the thigh, throwing him off balance before he could finish.

Sylar wheeled around and lunged at Mohinder. They went down, the gun clattering out of reach and Mohinder’s hand slingshot back, connecting with his cheek. He clenched his jaw and tongued the inside of his mouth, irritated by the knock. He’d already suffered one split lip from his trip and he was _not_ going to have another. Blocking Mohinder’s second throw, he pummeled Mohinder’s stomach, enjoying the novelty of inflecting damage without the aide of telekinesis and didn’t stop until he was sure that Mohinder wasn’t going to give him a reason to wear a ridiculous bandage on his nose.

Mohinder’s crumpled form, pinned by Sylar’s weight, squirmed painfully while trying to reach for the gun. Sylar frowned, the corners of his mouth tugged indiscriminately upward in bemusement.

“Mohinder, what _are_ you doing?”

Sylar rose from his haunches and plunged a knee between Mohinder’s legs, thinking that would be the straw that broke the camel’s back—or groin, whichever—and clenched his fists, just in case he hadn’t slammed Mohinder’s balls of jell-o hard enough. Mohinder cried out, involuntarily arching into Sylar. Sylar shoved him back by the shoulders, giving him a swift crack in the jaw while he was at it. Being powerless for the better part of four and a half months had taught Sylar how to be resourceful with his body and adapt to new conditions. In Maya’s case it was laughably easy to take her down, she didn’t know what hit her. Shirtlessness and a sweet caress of fingers was all she needed. In Mohinder’s case it took a little bit more effort but with him was just plain _fun_ , even if he should’ve known better. Sylar couldn’t resist toying with Mohinder; it was like picking at a scab until the coagulated blood oozed satisfyingly from the wound.

Mohinder uselessly reached for the gun again, but he was even less of a threat than before. Sylar slid from Mohinder’s waist and casually leaned over his head, grabbing the gun before Mohinder’s fingertips could gloss the coveted metal.

Sylar didn’t have time to pick at the scabby Mohinder. He needed his powers back _now_. Then Mohinder would be even more sorry for his sorry attempt at denying Sylar what was rightfully his.

He cocked the gun and leaned into Mohinder, pressing his forearm against his throat, applying the right amount of pressure to make Mohinder even more uncomfortable, yet not enough to keep the man from talking if still he had a voice after being kneed in the balls.

“Here I thought I was being nice, letting you take some of my blood for testing,” Sylar said, pressing the muzzle to Mohinder’s temple.

“I don’t need you alive. I could very well blow your head off and collect a sample of _your_ blood and inject myself. Then maybe I could a draw new mural with the leftovers. Right over Isaac’s old one,” Sylar said wistfully, his eyes sliding to the painting on the floor. Isaac Mendez was an interesting kill. There was something noble about the way he accepted his destiny, arms and legs outstretched, body quivering with pain. No pleading, only peace and conviction that he would die a hero. The impromptu crucifix staging was a fitting end for the painter. For all of the inconvenience Mohinder’s caused Sylar, his death wouldn’t be nearly as dignified.

Sylar leaned in further, his face inches above Mohinder’s busted nose and stared him in the eye, the seriousness of his gaze heavy as lead. “Wouldn’t that be nice? It’s so drab and sterile in here since the loft was converted. I think it would definitely spruce the place up.” He jostled the gun against Mohinder’s head and applied more pressure on his neck. Mohinder feebly tugged at his arm.

“Does Molly like to draw?” he mused, his words more noxious than any second-hand smoke. “A sweet little girl her age, of course she does. I saw the pictures on the refrigerator. She’s very good at drawing dogs,” he said, his lip curling into a smile.

“There were pictures of your happy little family, too. You, Molly and your big boyfriend. She’s quite the little artist,” Sylar said, dropping his voice. “I bet she could help me draw a very pretty picture.” Mohinder’s jaw moved as if to speak, but neither whimper nor whisper passed his lips. Annoyed, Sylar thumbed the bruising on Mohinder’s face with the gun nozzle, goading him for a reply until he noticed the tears leaking from Mohinder’s eyes. Then he noticed soft glaze of hypoxia settling across the rest of his features. Sylar shut his eyes for a moment, sighed and grudgingly let up, wishing it wasn’t so _easy_.

“Stay with me, Mohinder,” he said over Mohinder’s gasping coughs.

Sylar patted his cheek with the flank of the gun and traced a curvaceous line to Mohinder’s chin, along the slope of his neck, up and over his Adam’s apple and finally settled in the shallow crook of his throat while Mohinder's coughs tapered off. That ratcheted the terror up several notches. Sylar could finally see the whites of Mohinder’s eyes and feel the erratic rise and fall of his chest. That was more like it.

“Who’s the World’s Greatest Dad?” Sylar asked, a smirk blooming across his face. “It couldn’t be you. The World’s Greatest Dad wouldn’t get his precious little girl killed by the same man who killed her _other_ parents.”

Mohinder swallowed, the muscles of his Adam’s apple pushing the warm metal further into his sternum. The movement reverberated through the length of the gun and into Sylar’s hand, full of delicious nerves that made something twinge deep inside of Sylar. He leaned slowly to Mohinder’s ear, smirk shifting into a fierce grin that Mohinder wouldn’t be able to see, but hear in his whisper.

“So don't worry. She won’t have long to cry over your dead body,” he said, letting the words linger in Mohinder’s ear, “because she’ll be dead too.” He straightened and locked eyes with Mohinder once more, his threat dispersing like a fine mist of pesticide. Sylar smiled. He retraced the length of Mohinder’s neck and grazed his lips with the nozzle.

“You get my picture?”  



End file.
